


But if You Lift Your Eyes, I Am Your Brother

by ASassyDog



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASassyDog/pseuds/ASassyDog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He won't call you “brother."  He calls you “bandmate” instead, and that's enough for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But if You Lift Your Eyes, I Am Your Brother

**Author's Note:**

> A gift for [iamquitequaint](http://iamquitequaint.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.

It's late and the nightmares are tugging you out of sleep. Back then, underground and in the dark, the only comforting thing had been the press of another warm body against yours as you slept. Now, even in your own bed, guarded by hundreds of staff and with your every need catered to, it's impossible to feel safe when you close your eyes. You begin your trek down the hall, looking for someone who will keep you company tonight.

Nights like this, you're grateful that Abigail had chosen to make the Haus her full-time accomodations. She would have been your first choice, but she's gone on business today. You think she's visiting Charles at the Church again. They're spending more and more time together and sometimes she's away for nights at a time. Once, truly curious, you ask her if she and Charles are dating. She laughs so hard she snorts and doubles over, but you're just happy to see her happy. It's genuine, and it's a lot better than anything you saw from her while you were with Magnus. The best part is that her body is soft and warm when you lean on her shoulder; you're starting feel the gentle give of the muscles and fat as they slowly rebuild themselves and pad over her sharp collarbones.

Skwisgaar keeps his bed full most nights, insatiable as ever. And besides, he isn't good with soothing words and gentle conversations and recovery. He invites you to play guitar more often now, though, even suggests going “half-skis” on a solo for the next track. Your fingers are still weak and recovering. On your right hand, two of them had to be rebroken and set again. Magnus was kind enough to spare your left. You're still working up to a solo, you tell Skwisgaar. He offers to teach you: “Maybes this time you can gets rid of all the miskerables habits you had befores. Likes the clean chalksboard.”

“Maybe later,” you say. You're not ungrateful, though. From him, it's a lot—broken down pride and the closest thing to kindness he can offer.

Murderface isn't an awful companion; he doesn't smell as bad as you used to joke he did, but the days-old sweat and oil leaves a sheen on his skin that sticks to yours when you try to press closer. He doesn't often let you come that close anyhow. Nights with Murderface are almost always spent staying up, watching late-night historical documentaries or nature shows. You like movie nights well enough, but one night, the images of defenseless peasants being speared by horse-mounted soldiers is too much for you to deal with. You throw up over the edge of the couch and drag yourself, shaky-legged, out of the room to curl up in Abigail's empty bed. She finds you there in the morning and doesn't ask any questions, just calls a Klokateer to bring you a glass of water and rubs your back as you take small sips to rinse out the taste of bile and fear.

Nathan is solid and soft at the same time, the way a good pillow should be. He's not one for talking or cuddling or much of anything except the occasional grunt and beleaguered sigh when you try to curl an arm around him. You apologized for taking up Abigail's time, but he's still smarting after their breakup. (“Honestly inevitable,” Abigail called it. “We only had music in common and I wasn't in a good place.”) You get small hints that he cares, though. He watches you out of the corner of his eye when you're all drinking together and jostles the others if they're getting too rowdy. He doesn't like it when you flinch. You know for a fact that tonight he has at least four groupies with him, and you'd bet your insulin that all of them have some feature that reminds him of Abigail.

You're halfway down the hall to Pickles' room now, and you can hear his wheezy snoring through the wide-open door. Pickles isn't good with a lot of things. He isn't good with self-control—he drinks and pops pills like he was born for it (and maybe he was, you think, a reservoir for all the toxins built up in the world, a repository for all the noxious things humanity has created, his gut built to break down poison and pollution). He's miserable about rejection too: he shoves so hard in the opposite direction, at the most delicate of punishing glances, that he ends up coming right out the other side, like an overzealous pendulum.

Pickles is good at rebuilding, though. He's broken down one hundred and seventy three associations with all the words and feelings and sights and smells of Tomahawk and he's built up one hundred and twenty four new ones: spilled beer and drying blood and warm bubbling water and a voice hoarse from constant growling and the strange electric ocean smell of forty-two tracks water-recorded and destroyed. He's built another band from the bass up, and then rebuilt them again, even after everything else that had happened between them.

He won't call you “brother,” the way the others sometimes force themselves to do now in Church meetings, but you've met Seth, and you'd guess that he has the same associations with “brother” that you do now with “rock 'n' roll camp”—the bitterness of betrayal and broken promises diluted with what little tenderness you can salvage from your memories. He calls you “bandmate” instead, and that's enough for you.

You stick your head halfway into Pickles' room. The air smells like old pot and spilled booze and just a little bit of pee.

“Hey Pickle!” you say. He mumbles something and rolls over. “Pickle!” you say, a little louder this time. This time he shifts and starts to fumble for the switch to his bedside lamp. As the light flickers on, he sits up and peers at you through sleep-crusted eyes. His blankets are tangled messily around his legs and he's naked except for his underwear.

“What's goin' on, Toki? Whaddaya need so bad that yer wakin' me up for?”

You're holding the door by its side and sliding it back and forth in its hinges. “Just, you knows...gots the nightscares agains. The bad dreams what's been happeningk. And...nobodies else--” Ten years of speaking the language, and English is still thick and messy on your tongue, like talking through a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Don't gotta say anymore. Yeah, yeah, you can stay here tonight. C'mon.” He pats the empty bed on either side of him, and you can’t help but laugh—he looks like a seal you saw at SeaWorld once, slapping the waves with its awkward, overlarge flippers.

You push open the door and prepare yourself to take a running leap into the bed. You'd seen one of your cats do it once, and she'd managed to do it with all the grace you wish you had, four paws coordinating just so to make a smooth landing. Instead you end up sprawled over Pickles' legs, your elbow connecting with his knee. You both end up yelping in surprise, and Pickles, wincing, says, “Geez, Toki. Gotta warn a guy before ya do that.”

Pickles is pleasantly warm despite the chill of his stone-walled room. He lets you lay on his legs for a minute while you reminisce about your old cat, and then shifts them underneath you to tell you to get off. “C'mon, kiddo, I'm sleepy as fuck and 'm too tired to talk, so just get some rest, 'kay?” He pats the side of the bed again, and you move to make yourself comfortable on the pillows. They smell like dreadlock wax and sweat.

Pickles reaches to turn off the light; before he can reach it, you surge forward without thinking to glance a grateful kiss against his cheek. You hope he takes it well—you meant it to be puppylike and friendly, but when you look at Pickles, you start to worry. His eyes are wide and his pupils are slightly dilated. He stares at the space behind your head for a brief moment, but then his eyes flick back to you and his whole face breaks into a sheepish smile.

“Aw, geez, Toki. Gotta warn a guy before ya do that.”

You grin right back. He reaches for the blanket and you help him to pull it up around the both of you. He switches the light off and you settle onto his shoulder. For tonight, everything's going to be okay.

 

_Let your faith die._  
_Bring your wonder._  
_Yes, you are only one._  
_No, it is not enough_  
_But if you lift your eyes, I am your brother._

\--Vienna Teng, “Level Up”


End file.
